The Copper Queen was a ghost ship. The forecastle deck spread out before her, widening until it dropped abruptly down to the main deck. That tier was wide and flat, a single large cargo hatch covering its center with ropes dangling onto it from the gasbag frame above. Along both the port and starboard gunwales were a row of light cannons, notches cut beneath them so that they could be aimed at targets below the ship. To the rear rose the aftcastle deck, a pair of stairs leading to the ship's helm at the top. This vessel was old, the dark wood chipped and scuffed. Equipment lay about the deck carelessly, forgotten in the excitement of the attack. Natasha obviously hadn't taken care of it in the little time she'd been aboard, not the way that either crew had cared for the Dawnhawk.
Lina picked herself up and stretched. Well. What now?
The rope that dangled her crewmates from the bow was not tied to the prow, or even up here on the bow. Instead, it stretched taut down the length of the ship, running all the way back to the aftcastle deck. There it terminated past the helm and out of her sight.
Lina turned back to the prow. She bent to inspect the rope, rubbing against the prow and the wood of the gunwales. The fibers were tough, and did not seem too damaged; they would hold for awhile.
She leaned over the edge. Dimly she spied the crew, still hanging, the net a bulbous outline against the sea.
"I made it up," she yelled.
"Excellent," replied Fengel. Faint, halfhearted cheers echoed him.
"I'm not sure how to get you up," shouted Lina. "There's no winch here I can see. Ship's deserted, though. I'm going to take a look around."
"Right then," Fengel called back. "See if you can find a ladder. If not, then improvise!"
A ladder. Right. She turned back to the ship and made her way over to the edge of the forecastle deck. A small, steep set of steps led down to the deck. Quickly but carefully she descended.
Lina followed the rope supporting the net full of pirates down the length of the deck. Maybe there was a winch in the stern? If she could just see how it terminated, maybe she could figure something out. She certainly wasn't seeing any rolled-up rope ladder anywhere.
She climbed up to the aftcastle deck, and her heart almost fell into her stomach. The rope suspending her crewmates stretched back past the helm to the very stern rails of the ship. There it was tied in a heavy, but simple knot. Already the wood of the rails was splintered and cracked, some of the spindles dangling free. The anchor point was uncertain, and would not last. Natasha had meant to kill them.
Lina glanced about for some other way to anchor the rope. Nothing made itself apparent. She ran back down the stair and back up to the bow, cursing under her breath.
"Captain?" she cried, leaning over the gunwales.
"Yes?" came Fengel's reply.
"It would be a really, really good idea if you lot down there could move as little as possible."
Silence greeted her statement.
"We will endeavor not to," said Fengel at last, both in reply to Lina and as an order to the wordless crew.
Lina turned back to the ship. There had to be something she could do. Improvise, improvise. Forget that. There's got to be rope ladders somewhere on board. Or more ropes, at least. If she found one she could anchor it to something properly, buying more time if—when—the railing snapped free.
She descended back to the deck. Where would they keep spare rope or ladders? There weren't anything like the neat equipment lockers aboard the Dawnhawk. Lina cursed, stopping as she glanced at the forecastle behind her. Up above was the bow deck, but here below it was open. Once, comparing bedding arrangements with a client in her former line of work, she'd heard that sometimes sailors slept there where they could access ready gear quickly. Lina took a step toward it, when a sound caught at her ear.
It was a sob.
Lina stopped. All around her the airship creaked, groaning and complaining in its dotage. Had she misheard? No. It had been the sound of a grown man crying; she'd heard it far too often to mistake it for anything else.
She drew the loaned knife from its sheath. When she'd thought herself alone, the ship hadn't seemed at all dangerous. Ancient and rattletrap maybe, but not dangerous. Now though she knew better, and her heart raced.
The sound came again, a thick choking sob echoing from the aftcastle deck. There, the door of the captain's cabin was slightly ajar. She had not noticed it until now, too focused on the predicament at hand. Lina crept to the door, knife held at the ready, peered within.
The cabin was a mess. It smelled of old mold and alcohol. The window-hangings above the box-bed at the rear of the room were moth-eaten and pulled shut. A lone figure crouched in the far corner on the floor, a tiny nub of candle his only illumination. It was a young, red-headed man in the rumpled greatcoat of a Mechanist. Several bottles of cheap rum lay at his feet. Lina pushed her way inside. The Mechanist didn't seem to notice. Softly forward she crept until she crouched just before him.